Hogwarts Letters
by MorganD
Summary: Letters exchanged between HP characters. FIRST LETTER: Sirius writes to Harry after the events of GoF. SECOND: Remus writes to Harry soon afterwards.
1. From Sirius to Harry 1995

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Somewhere green and safe  
7 July, 1995

Dear Harry,

Sorry for taking so long to reply, I'm afraid I gave Hedwig quite a hard time as she tried to bring me your last letter. I left Hogsmeade on Buckbeak, but part of my travellings since then had to be made on foot--well... paws, actually--and by Floo Powder, and some Apparating. (And if you're in for some godfatherly advice: when you're old enough to Apparate, never EVER perform the spell with a borrowed wand, especially if you hadn't had any practice for almost fourteen years. I learned this lesson the hard way. Nothing too serious, I didn't really splinch myself, only my right hand Apparated slightly off its place, so I have a dislocated wrist. It'll be fine in a few days and I'm left-handed anyway, it's no big deal. If only Moony would get that into his head... I swear, for a wolf, he can be quite a hen sometimes.)

As I was saying, Hedwig probably went through a lot of flying back and forth and around until she could find me. (Good news is: if your clever owl had trouble tracking me down, our dear friends the Dementors won't stand a chance!) She looks awfully tired, was not entirely gentle as she nibbled my finger when I thanked her, and right now she's glowering at me as I write this letter, as if daring me to put her to work again so soon. She reminds me a bit of McGonagall when she caught me transfiguring her spectacles into soap bubbles, back in my fourth year at Hogwarts.

Relax, girl! I have to make up to my godson for my lateness in replying and for all the one-liners I've been sending him lately, not to mention all the twelve years I wasn't there for him at all. So enjoy your mouse dinner (sorry, if I don't join you, but I got fed up with rats) and get your well-deserved beauty sleep, because this letter here will be pretty long.

I'm glad to learn you got back to your aunt and uncle safely, I was worried about you. Now that you're in one of the few places Voldemort doesn't have a hope to put his feet--paws?--, no matter how powerful he is, I can breathe freely again. I've talked to Dumbledore by fire this morning, and we're setting a few plans to improve the castle security for your next term. 

I know you're upset. So am I. So is Dumbledore, I suspect; the realisation that he had Voldemort's most faithful servant right under his nose teaching the students for nine months seems to have hit him hard. That's not what any of us would expect of a place reputed as one of the safest in the wizard world, after all.

On the other hand, the blunder has apparently filled our old Headmaster with some tireless energy and unbreakable will to make sure such a fiasco will never happen again. And I assure you, Harry, he's not acting out of fear for his job or public image, like a certain Minister of Magic whose name I'd rather not mention. 

Not that Dumbledore's reputation seems to be at stake right now. Contrary to my expectations, the community isn't out for Dumbledore's blood, and Hogwarts governors won't even bring up the subject of Cedric Diggory's death.

Moony reminded me the other day--somehow I hadn't made the connection--Diggory was that Seeker that won the game for Hufflepuff when the Dementors came into Hogwarts grounds and caused you to fall from your broom, wasn't he? I didn't see him catch the Snitch--too busy running away from the Dementors myself. Didn't pay much attention to him either, I'm afraid--too busy gasping at how beautifully you fly and how much you resemble your father (the rain was also a big problem for James until he learned about that Impervius charm). He seemed to be a fine lad though. Remus had only good things to say about him from the year he spent teaching there--even if he (Remus) was noticeably too busy paying attention to you too--and Dumbledore mentioned he'd have been made Head Boy for sure this year. God-damned Voldemort, always goes for the best ones, doesn't he?

I realise with some apprehension that Diggory was more a rival than a friend to you, and if there's one thing I learned from meeting Snape again after all these years is that the death of a rival can hit you just as hard but in so much more complicated ways. I wish I could have stayed with you longer after the Tournament. Damn, I wish I could have stayed with you, period. What happened wasn't your fault, Harry, so don't blame yourself. If you ever want to talk about Diggory--or about anything else, for that matter--, I'm here to listen. Always.

I'm finally done with my task--contacting some old mates, mostly. The majority of them weren't too happy to see me, but a word in advance from Dumbledore kept most from hexing me into oblivion right on sight. Old Mundungus Fletcher wouldn't listen to me until I had him tied down to a chair and gagged with one of his socks--a manoeuvre that almost turned me into a real murderer (if you ever wondered whether something besides Snape's hair could stink bad enough to kill, now you know).

I suppose that kind of reaction was to be expected, considering my current popularity level. Thankfully things aren't nearly as tense as they were a decade and half ago. No "curse first, ask later" attitude, thank Merlin. 

No warm welcomes either though. Except for when I got to Moony's.

I reckon I'll have to spend the rest of my days grovelling at Remus Lupin's feet--or paws, once every twenty-eight nights--, prostrated in endless gratitude for his friendship and everything he has done for me. His place was the first stopover in my journey--to let him know you're okay, leave Buckbeak under his care and borrow his late father's wand--and now is my shelter for the next couple of months. Oh, and I'm not worried about writing this in a letter; Remus has a knack for finding the most secluded places to make his den (you understand why), and if the Dementors manage to locate this spot they sure deserve to catch me.

He found some really old photos of me somewhere in his attic--I'm surprised he didn't burn them all after I was sent to Azkaban. He picked a particularly ghastly one to pin on the big mirror in the hall: I'm about nineteen, wearing some khaki shorts and a Don Iniquitous and Band tee-shirt (ever went to one of their concerts?), leaning over my old motorbike (gosh, I miss her!), smoking a clove cigarette (that was before Lily got pregnant; she said I couldn't be your godfather if I didn't quit) and needing desperately to shave my sideburns. Remus actually told the mirror to nag me into eating and walking under the sunshine until I recover the looks from that photo. Which means I'll have it teasing and yelling at me till Doomsday, since not all the food and sunshine of a lifetime will bring back the fresh vigour and shape of my late teen years. Nothing short of a miracle or a de-ageing potion can do it, and I'm allergic to the brook paspalum used in ageing and de-ageing potions (another lesson I had to learn the hard way).

I remember from my Muggle Studies classes that muggle mirrors are very polite and considerate, refraining from commenting on our appearance, no matter how bad we look. Sometimes Muggles are a lot wiser than we are.

But it's not like I can complain much. (Well, I can, and I do, but just because Moony wouldn't recognise me if I didn't.) As remote and inaccessible a location as only a werewolf could find, this place is amazing! Can't give you much of a description, for that would be dangerous in case Hedwig is intercepted on her way back (and I was never much of a poet anyway), but I can tell you it's no sacrifice at all to stroll and jog around these stunning landscapes. I've been swimming a lot too, and dear Merlin, fishing!!! in this pond, lake, lagoon, whatever it's called. I never had the patience to wait for a cake to bake properly, I'd always finger half the raw dough into my mouth and drive the house-elves nuts, and now I'm fishing! With a rod and hook and worms and NO MAGIC! 

Sometimes even I don't recognise myself.

Anyway, with all the sunshine and fresh air, I'm sort of developing a "summer look". Nothing like the cool tan of that photo, but at least my skin doesn't seem to be made of dirty, melted wax anymore. This morning, after roaring the usual reproaches about my dishevelment, the mirror admitted that I finally look alive now. Quite an improvement, don't you think?

Remus' cooking has a lot to do with it too. I swear, Harry, his roasts can put Hogwarts Christmas turkey to shame. I never figured how a brilliant cook like him could be so disastrous around potion caldrons. I've always thought cooking and potion-brewing required more or less the same skills--skills I clearly don't have, since I suck at both--, but Remus tells me it's not like that at all. Not that he obliges me with any explanation on the subject; he just says it's different and won't elaborate. Which tells me that he doesn't know the difference either, or he wouldn't skip the opportunity to get all professorial and explain it to me. (He was always like that, since we were kids, and Wormtail would have flunked half his classes if it weren't for Moony's innate professorial tendencies.) But he's probably right, it is different. After all, Snape might have become a talented potions master, but I wouldn't eat a slice of toast made by that ugly git.

On second thought, I wouldn't drink a potion brewed by him either. Don't know where Moony finds the guts to do it. Or the stomach to survive it.

Can he teach at all, Harry? (Snape, I mean. Well, you can tell me what you thought of Professor Moony too. I won't tell him.) It's appalling to think of that greasy snob that once cursed Prongs into losing all his fingernails two hours before a Quidditch match against Ravenclaw (it wasn't even Slytherin, for crying out loud!) becoming a supposedly respectable professor at Hogwarts, passing his... knowledge(?) on to the next generation.

It's painfully ironic too. James never got to teach you to fly a broom--not that you seem to have needed much help in that department. Lily never got to teach you to charm windows into refracting the sunlight as if they were made of moving stained-glass--not sure you'd want to do that, but she'd have taught you all the same, it was her favourite charm. And I never got to teach you to transfigure hats into large neon-pink lacy bows--not much of a prankster in you, Moony tells me, but it's always a nice trick to know when a Slytherin decides to challenge you in the Great Hall.

But Snape? Oh, HE gets to teach you to brew the Purgatio Kseron, prepare Foruncho Urtica infusions and boil an Anurie Insuffatio cocktail. Oh my, I can almost hear him, with his deep-down-from-his-coffin voice, gloating about your high marks...

But hey, don't take my muttering as an encouragement not to study. Be a good boy, don't play with your food, wash behind your ears, study hard. I want to see some top-grade OWLs before next June. That's what I should be telling you, as your supposedly responsible godfather.

I reckon Prongs expected me to grow into one while helping him and Lily to raise you. Now I guess I'll have to manage with just a crash course. So be patient with this old dog, okay? I'll get the hang of it. Eventually.

My father used to say that you notice you're getting old when you start bragging about your kid's exploits instead of your own. Maybe it's time Remus and I buy some walking sticks then. It's funny how the two of us, with all the stuff we've done together and all the years we were apart, won't find any conversation topic more interesting than talking about you. I got him telling me everything about the year he spent near you, he got me telling him everything about the year I spent almost near you. I'm jealous of him because of that "almost", he's jealous of me because I've got letters from you. (As if it were my fault that he's too bloody shy to owl anyone without prior permission to do so, preferably in a formal ten-paged document, countersigned by the National Bureau of Bird-Delivered Communications and by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, plus the personal stamp of the Almighty Minister himself.)

We've also been talking about all the awesome things the three of us will do as soon as my name is cleared and I'm reinstated as your legal guardian. We're working on a list of all the rides we'd like to take you, places to show you, stuff to teach you, people to introduce you to... In only three days we've got a list long enough to keep you busy until your grandchildren graduate from Hogwarts. ('Where will Harry find the time to have grandchildren with all we have planned for him?' Moony asked me. 'That's his problem, not ours,' I told him.)

However, every now and then Remus will urge me to be more realistic about my expectations towards you. To tell the truth, I don't even know if you'll even want to spend any amount of time with me. Despite what Snape or Moony might tell you (unfortunately they tend to agree upon some of their opinions on me), I'm not completely daft. About fifteen minutes before you accepted my offer to live with me, you had your wand raised and ready and pointed to my heart, and I was pretty sure that would be the last thing I'd ever see, my final punishment for trusting Peter... And I'm sure you didn't change your mind so quickly out of admiration for my unrivalled elegance and sense of humour at the time. You see, I need no screaming mirror to tell me I looked half-dead and a hundred percent psychotic that night. 

That you would jump at the idea of moving in with a half-dead psychotic is positively a disturbing thought. I don't think your mother ever had a kind word to say about her sister and brother-in-law, but are they really that horrible? Are you really all right, Harry? Are they treating you well enough? You do know you can call me if anything happens, don't you? And you do know that I will turn up and turn them all into bats if you ask me to, right?

And you do understand that I won't be angry if you ever change your mind about staying with the Dursleys, I hope. I'd be sad, of course, but not angry. I don't want to push you into a decision you might regret later. After all, they have raised you since you were one year old, you're used to them, while you barely know me.

Perhaps that's the point Moony and I are most confused about. We were there when you were born (trying to keep Prongs from swallowing his tongue). We were there when Lily changed your diapers (although we'd make a quick exit if she asked us to help her, but that's beside the point). We were there to hear you babble your first words (you used to call me "Pah-foo", you knew? Oh, but you could say "Moony" right. Bloody werewolf always boasted about that). We were there to freak out and panic when you caught the flu for the first time (although Moony swears to this day that the only ones panicking were James and I). We were there the day you crawled under the sofa and found an earring your mother had lost six months earlier (well, I was; it was a full moon night). We were there when you managed to stand on your tiny feet for the very first time (no, sadly, we weren't; but James described it with so much detailing that it feels like we were there ourselves). 

And believe it or not, you were never away from our thoughts during the twelve years we were separated. You can take Remus' word for that: he keeps dozens of photos of baby-you around, not to mention a scrapbook with every single article the newspapers have published about you. Unfortunately, the Dementors would distort my own memories into such a chaotic turmoil, I have only hazy recollections of what I thought about while alone in my cell. But I know I thought and dreamed of you a lot.

And there're all the similarities with James and Lily... Being around you feels so familiar (in all senses), because either you remind us of our friends or of the way you were since your first days. So I guess we tend to think of you as someone who is really close and that we know very well. But in fact, we don't. Not really. Not that well. Not yet.

And Merlin knows what you think about us! I suspect Remus counted on your parents to get you used to the idea of having a werewolf around without being wary of him. And I certainly counted on you being used to your father's weird antics -- mine are just slightly weirder.

So how shocking was it, Harry, to have met the remaining Marauders without any preparation for it? How disturbing are we, making crazy plans for your future without any legal or moral right to it? Any chance you can put up with us? With me?

Somehow this letter didn't go where I intended it. Did I really write all this? Either it's an Azkaban side-effect or I'm too sleepy to think straight and Moony tricked me into using a Quick-Quotes Quill. He did that once in our sixth year at Hogwarts. It was such a pain to convince Professor Sprout that I wasn't responsible for the inclusion of that vivid description of the notorious Ghoulianic Orgy in the middle of my report on the growing of Devil's Snare. Especially since I had written a similar piece to an essay about the Sepdillyn Wars the year before. (Yet another godfatherly advice: Binns might never get your name right, but he does read your homework.)

Look at this! Two rolls of parchment! Hedwig is going to bite my hand off when I tell her tomorrow. I've got to remember to use my right hand to tie it to her leg--no use losing my only good hand now, is there?

Please let me know if you're really all right, and if your uncle and aunt are being nice and supportive, and if you need anything. Keep me posted on everything that happens. I'll write to you again before your birthday.

Take care,

Sirius

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written by Morgan D.  
October 27th, 2002

Based on characters and events created by J.K.Rowling in her "Harry Potter" novel series published by Bloomsbury, and also on the fanfiction timeline developed by Iniga -- particularly on two astounding fanfics called "Darkness Dying" and "Interim", which can be found at Fanfiction.net (user ID 49515).

This letter is part of the **_Hogwarts Letters_** project: **http: // destinystruth.net / hogwarts** (Eliminate the space between the characters.)

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	2. From Remus to Harry 1995

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A Place Where I Can Hang My Hat  
12 July, 1995

Dear Harry,

Your godfather has suggested you wouldn't mind too much if I wrote to you. I sincerely hope he's right. My apologies if he isn't--my fault for believing him--, and double apologies if he's not only right about that but also when he says I should have written sooner. 

I admit having started about half a dozen letters to you since last July, all of them finding their way to my fireplace before being finished. Padfoot finds my hesitance foolish, he has no trouble letting me know it. But I have my reasons.

Last year my situation was clearer: I was your teacher, and Dumbledore had cautioned all the staff not to mention my connection with your father to you or any of the students. Thus I knew I should keep my distance, no matter how excited I was about being reacquainted with you after so long. Sadly as they were, circumstances told me exactly where I stood, defining what was expected from me and which lines I wasn't allowed to cross. 

I've done a lot of trespassing though. Invitations for tea in my office, the Patronus lessons, a toast with Butterbeer, covering up for you to save the map from Severus, my less than impartial swearing when Draco Malfoy pulled the tail of your Firebolt in the finals--thankfully no one could hear me over Minerva McGonagall's own spurt of indignation. (Dear, dear, before that game I'd have bet six months worth of my income that she didn't know half of those words...) I suppose I haven't really changed much from the Marauder that followed your father and godfather everywhere in thrilling and very illegal explorations of Hogwarts and surroundings. And to my shame, I'm not ashamed of it at all.

At any rate, knowing where the lines are drawn is always a comfort, both to the obedient fellow and the lawbreaker, and I've always been terrified of playing any game without knowing the rules. I'm sure Padfoot will be delighted to tell you about my three-day research in the library before giving into his and James' insistent convocations to play Muggle Poker. (It paid off though. I stripped them both--and Peter--of most of their allowances in our first match.)

I'm not your teacher anymore. You know now about the Marauders and their fate, and I believe you understand why we tried to keep those facts from you. And you and I both know now that some of our assumptions--in my case, thirteen years of assumptions and resentful judgements--were utterly wrong. At this point I can't see any lines or rule books lying around, and you're no longer that cute, trusting baby that smiled and played with me without a care to where I had come from, as long as I didn't hold you too tight. In short: too many things have changed and I'm still trying to find my way around this new scenery.

As a matter of fact, it's somewhat hard to think of this as "new" scenery, having my old roommate back making a mess of the house and pulverising my brains with his hilarious, inconceivable jokes. More than once I caught myself glancing worriedly at the corners, making sure old Mrs Inglethorp wasn't around to denounce us to Filch. (Mrs Inglethorp was Mrs Norris' predecessor; she died at the age of 41 when I was a third-year. Filch was disconsolate for months--and you know what that means for the students--until Dumbledore presented him with a new kitten. I suppose I like Mrs Norris much better; she doesn't seem as sensitive to a werewolf's presence as dear Mrs Inglethorp was.)

Padfoot has been as charming and exasperating a company as he's always been. Not that he hasn't changed. We all have a little--him, me, you, Severus Snape, everyone. It's been almost a decade and half after all; we all grew up. Some of us more than the others, but the years had affected us all. And I suppose one can't talk about how much Sirius has or hasn't changed without mentioning Azkaban. 

I keep remembering this fellow--another registered werewolf in fact--I've met in one of my annual visits to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He had once spent two days and one night at Azkaban, for disturbing the neighbourhood with his howling--his family kept him firmly tethered and locked up every full moon, which is a certain way of enraging a werewolf to the point of self-mutilation. I keep remembering his trembling eyelids and fidgety gestures as he told me in a barely intelligible whisper, 'Thirty-six hours at Azkaban are more than enough to change your whole perspective of life and expectations about hell.' Such a short time in a mild security cell, and it was obvious that the experience had affected him in a way the nightmare of his monthly Transformation had failed to achieve.

This was something I couldn't even begin to contemplate, and looking at Sirius now assures me I still can't. I could hardly recognise him in the Shack that night a year ago, a mere shadow of the jaunty, brawny, impish boy that was my closest friend for my whole youth. And it's frightening to realise that the physical damage is but a facet of the harm made within. Every now and then he'll become gloomily quiet, glaring darkly at the shadows on the walls, buried neck-deep in some awful fragment of memory of his days in prison, trapped inside his own mind. Sometimes he'll open up and tell me about what he sees. Other times he'll just keep it all to himself, until he's ready to flash me one of his puzzling smiles and turn me head over heels with a completely unexpected and boisterously funny joke. 

When this happens, I find myself not in the least surprised at his incredible deed of having escaped from that forsaken island with his sanity intact. In a way, I suppose he's just too pragmatic to really give in to depression. He always has to find something to do about any problem. It might not be the best solution--it seldom was, back in school--but he'd always come up with some kind of action that would change the situation somehow, for better or worse. Accepting defeat is simply not his style.

He also hates to be ordered around, even if it's in his best interest. Put a plate before him and he'll devour everything on it, edible or not. Put a plate before him AND tell him to eat, and he'll start growling and throwing snide remarks about motherly wolves. Not many grown men can be found around pouting and fussing and stamping their feet, but your dear godfather too often seems to have the mind of a toddler, and I'll quit saying mean things about him just as soon as he stops reading over my shoulder, which is a very rude and annoying thing to do, thank you.

So, where was I?

Oh yes, things that have changed, things that have not.

I know Sirius told you about the photography I've fastened to the mirror. The trick, although he hated it, has been working marvellously. The mirror's bellowing has little to do with it, of course. Padfoot is as willing to obey it as to obey me. However, he's even less willing to be haunted by before/after pictures. It's not exactly a matter of vanity. He was always proud of his appearance and health, and looking like something a Troll would consider too disgusting to eat simply won't do.

He looks so much better now. Still underweight, but I'm confident that by the end of the summer he'll be able to stand beside one of those dreadful "WANTED" pictures right inside the Aurors headquarters and not be recognised by anyone. (But let's not mention this to him, okay? We don't want to give him ideas.)

If only he would give his wrist time to heal properly. On the excuse of using it but for simple defence enchantments, he convinced me to lend him an old wand that had belonged to my father, and used it to Disapparate. I'd have thought even he would have better sense than that. He could have splinched himself, for crying out loud! Oh yes, he could, and what did I tell him about reading over my shoulder? Of course that includes using the Spyoculus Charm! What is he thinking? He should go and finish his own letter to his godson, because I'm almost finished here and it's best if we don't force Hedwig to make two trips to Surrey.

You know, Harry, any of those letter attempts that wound up as coals were far less disjointed than this one, but then I suppose I can't do any better--or worse--under the circumstances.

Oh, the photo. I promise to show it to you someday, but for now I need it where it is. But I picked these other two, I think you'll like them even better. 

The first was taken on the same day as the photo on the mirror. There's still Padfoot with those ludicrous sideburns hugging the greatest love of his life (his bike). The reason Prongs is laughing is because he just enchanted Padfoot's Don Iniquitous and Band tee-shirt to say "Don Insipid and Bugger"--James and Sirius were so close most people thought they were brothers, but they could never agree about music. The reason Lily is rolling her eyes is because that's what she'd always do when James and Sirius started arguing about music. And I'm sure you'll recognise me as the one leaning over the precious bike to transfigure Padfoot's stinking cigarette into a goldfish.

(Padfoot will give me away eventually, if he didn't already, so I'll just hand you my confession: I also cultivated ridiculous sideburns for a very short period of my life. Four months, if I'm not mistaken, when I was 17. I got rid of them after Petunia Evans (yes, your aunt Petunia) told me I looked "positively wolfish" with them. Lily told me I should take it as a compliment, but I know it wasn't, even if her sister didn't know half of the story...)

The second photo was taken in Paris, 1980. It's one of my favourites. I pointlessly tried to hate it for thirteen years, and I'm so glad I can go back to liking it. It caught me and Padfoot on the precise moment when he, after holding you selfishly for hours, let me carry you for a while, so the photo will sometimes show you on my lap and sometimes on his. That excursion was truly special for all of us, it was the only time we all travelled together--James, Lily, you, me, Sirius and Peter--and we had such a great time. I promise to tell you all about it to the last detail someday--if you're interested, of course. I have two trunks full of pictures and souvenirs. 

Peter isn't in the photos because he was the one to take them. Actually, he was the one to take most of the pictures of the Marauders, as he was somewhat camera-shy, so I have very few pictures of him. I used to think of that as a sad thing. Now it's almost a relief. 

Anyway, I hope you like the photos, even if the letter itself leaves much to be desired. I hope you and I will meet again soon enough. As a matter of fact, I'm sure we will.

Take good care of yourself, 

Remus J. Lupin

-----------------------  
written by Morgan D.  
November 21st, 2002

"Harry Potter" and its characters belong to J.K.Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros and Merlin-knows-whom-else. Only Mrs Inglethorp is mine, but she's available to anyone who might find her any use.

This letter is part of the **_Hogwarts Letters_** project: **http: // destinystruth.net / hogwarts** (Eliminate the space between the characters.)

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	3. Hogwarts Letters

IMPORTANT - PLEASE READ

**__**

Hogwarts Letters is a fanfiction project developed by Morgan D. and Theresa Ann Wymer, consisting of letters exchanged by several HP characters at different points of J.K. Rowling's timeline.

So far we have written letters signed by Harry, Hermione, Sirius, Remus, James, Snape, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Lockhart, Madam Hooch, Dolores Umbridge and Mrs Granger, and we're planning to write many, many more, "incarnating" all our favourite HP characters. 

Unfortunately, we can't post the entire project here, since FF.net's chaptering system is incompatible with the way we organise the letters archive. WHAT YOU HAVE READ HERE IS NOTHING BUT A SMALL SAMPLE.

If you'd like to read the rest of **_Hogwarts Letters_**, please go to: **http: // destinystruth.net / hogwarts** (Eliminate the space between the characters.)

We keep a newsletter to inform our visitors of the Hogwarts Letters updates. If you're interested, go to ** http: // destinystruth.net / hogwarts / updates.html** and sign up.


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